


what you run for

by chryysaskk



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blaviken reference, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Fluff, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Flower Symbolism, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Guilty Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possession, Swordfighting, geralt needs a lot of that, in a bad way though, isn't he always, jaskier thinks about starting a carrer in psychoanalysis, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, they deserve it your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chryysaskk/pseuds/chryysaskk
Summary: Jaskier saw the mirror again. Funny, one would’ve said he’d been there just five minutes ago. A lot must have happened in those five minutes. He shivered, furrowed his brows in thought. “Did you find the mage?” The helpless look Geralt gave him made him conclude that no, probably he hadn’t. But then, how did he end up like that?orJaskier gets possessed. Geralt doesn't like what follows.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 137





	what you run for

**Author's Note:**

> hello, hello, i'm back at my bullshit!!  
> i've been writing this fic for a whole damned month because i have no time in my life at all and i don't know if what i wrote makes sense eventually but i'm exhausted so here you go.  
> however, i liked this idea and couldn't get it out of my head unless i wrote it so guess who's to blame here? aha, moi.  
> also i hate male mages, if this wasn't clear from the first two lines :)  
> anyway i really really hope you enjoy it since i put my soul into it and if you reach the end and decide to leave kudos or a comment, i will cherish you in my heart for the rest of my days <3

“So, so, what’s so special about that particular mage, huh?”

“Nothing’s special about mages and the same applies to him. He’s a deceitful and, in that case, murderous piece of shit.”

Jaskier huffed and nodded in agreement, satisfied by Geralt’s answer, as he was strolling behind him and carelessly observing the few anemones on the side of the road, the hesitant start of a vast red sea of them as he raised his eyes and gazed at them with a silent gasp. Geralt halted Roach momentarily and turned to see what had caused the bard to stop behind him, only to find him smiling and staring at the field.  
  
“I could stare at this forever.” Jaskier glanced at him with the corner of his eye and Geralt wanted to smile, he really did, he adored Jaskier more than the flowers when he looked as amazed as he did now. But the growing worry in his gut turned the quirking of his lips into a wince and he was grateful that the bard hadn’t seen it. He snorted and started walking again.  
  
Jaskier ran beside him. “Did you know that anemones protect against evil, Geralt? Won't you let me cut a couple to keep with you?” His almost childish smile faded when he saw the witcher’s eyes darkening even more under the cloudy sky. Strange, he could swear that the sun shone ethereally bright a moment before.  
  
Geralt shook his head. “Anemones are not going to save us now.” He caught Jaskier looking at the sky in confusion and frowned. If he squinted a bit he could discern a tower behind the trees at the end of the road. His heart fluttered for a second even though he hated to admit it. That was not a regular monster. The people that were lost did not have regular deaths. These were not regular clouds.  
  
“So you mean to tell me,” Jaskier cleared his throat and tried to hide his newfound frustration behind a smile, “that you don’t exactly know what we’re facing.” It was not a question. It was a statement. Geralt did not exactly know what they were facing. And that made his fingers go numb.  
  
“ _I’m_ facing,” Geralt grunted and fastened his step so as not to stumble on his worsening intuition. “You’re staying here.”  
  
They stopped just outside the fence surrounding an enormous tower coloured solely by the flowers growing in the garden, otherwise grey like the sky. The witcher approached a tree and loosely tethered Roach, in case of an emergency.  
  
Jaskier huffed loudly. “Ohoho, no no, not in any way. Geralt, I swear, if we’re going to have this conversation once mo–”  
  
“ _Listen_.” Geralt interrupted him by grabbing him by his arms and shaking him. “This is not a joke. No one has come out of that tower alive and even if they did, they’d gone nuts! We saw them. You remember what the alderman said.”  
  
Jaskier rolled his eyes and wriggled in Geralt’s grip until he freed himself. “Yes, I remember but you also have to remember that I’m not staying behind again whatever happens and you can’t fucking force me to.”  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt snorted when he met the bard’s determined look and saw him pouting in stubbornness. He’d be damned if he kept trying to persuade him to stay there, yet his heart was pounding inside his chest with every passing second accompanied by the thought that Jaskier would be in fatal danger once more. This man had no self-preservation instincts at all and Geralt knew, he knew what would happen if it all went wrong. He always knew. Still, Jaskier was with him every single time.  
  
He lowered his look and swallowed, then unsheathed his sword. His eyes met Jaskier’s. “Do you have a dagger, at least?”  
  
Jaskier scoffed. “Of course, dear, I’m not an amateur.”  
  
“It’s not a fucking performance,” Geralt growled but then strong fingers were entwined in his and Jaskier nodded at him soberly. He froze for a moment at the touch. But then found himself unable to let go. So he fixed his gaze on the bard. “Promise me you’ll run if anything wrong happens.” His grip tightened on Jaskier’s hand when he saw him ready to protest. “ _Promise me_ , Jaskier.”  
  
Jaskier sighed and shrugged in resignation. “Alright, I promise.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Geralt walked past him, letting go of his hand rather unwillingly and pushed the iron gate to reveal the paradoxically beautiful garden behind it. Spring crocus and bushes of dark red roses framed the short path. He glanced behind him for a second, saw Jaskier smiling faintly, as if in encouragement, and finally stepped inside.  
  
  


~~

  
  
It was dark inside the tower, apart from the torches burning on the walls of each room, staircase and corridor, their light resembling that of the morning sun yet their distance so far that darkness was spilling between them. Jaskier felt shivers running up and down his spine as he followed Geralt, observing every room with the hope of being distracted from the fear crawling on his bones. Yet the decoration offered him anything but relief, the walls either empty or hidden between branches that probably should not be there in the first place or again, he saw a single, tall mirror hung on a room with no other furniture, except for a stool and a rope hanging from the ceiling, so unmoving one would have thought it was a painting. Jaskier heard his heart thumping inside his chest and fastened his step to reach Geralt.  
  
He was strangely thankful for the purple carpet covering every plank of the creaking floor, thus absorbing any sound their feet hesitating for mere seconds on their route would make. If he took a better look at it though, he might realize that the darker spots on its soft surface were not the absurd lighting’s fault. But he didn’t. He did not want to.  
  
He stuck as closely as he could to Geralt, to the point their feet were tangled on the same stair and they stumbled on each other. Yet no one dared to make a sound. Geralt glared at Jaskier, forcing his heart to return to its place for the moment. Then he continued up on the second set of stairs they were climbing, and with every step, the medallion vibrated on his chest, still, no other sign indicated the presence of the mage. As he reached the second floor, he heard Jaskier’s breath hitching behind him. He turned his head.  
  
Jaskier looked up at him, saw the look of concern the witcher gave him and smiled in reassurance, but almost guiltily. He saw Geralt turning around again and walking towards the room at the end of the short corridor. He closed his eyes for a moment, sighed silently. Then followed.  
  
He had felt guilty, yes. Though not for worrying Geralt in vain, although it made his heart ache, seeing him troubled like that. But it was not that. It was the feeling of nausea that made his head spin momentarily, then subsided but didn’t vanish completely. He could guess it was fear, he really could. But he knew it was not. And he felt guilty. Because he said nothing.  
  
He couldn’t run, he didn’t want to leave Geralt. He knew he would be barely useful in the best-case scenario.  
  
Still, he stayed.  
  
And even if the peculiar feeling in his gut grew more alarming as they reached the room, he still stayed close. It was just fear.  
  
He saw the inside of the room brightened slightly behind the half-closed door, not by the light of the torches but by daylight, emerging probably from a window. He cheered up for a second, considered the thought of glimpsing beyond the grey walls. But then his legs trembled, and he felt nauseous again and slightly leaned against the wall. Geralt slowed his step but didn’t look back. He didn’t slow down because of him. There was something else.  
  
“Something isn’t right.”  
  
Jaskier almost chuckled because it sure as fuck wasn’t. And his grip tightened around the dagger in his hand and he knew his brain had given no such order. And he so wished that line was metaphorical.  
  
But it wasn’t.  
  
“Uh, Geralt.” His voice was barely audible, not even a whisper. But Geralt heard him, of course he did. He turned his head. Jaskier realized what had just flashed through his mind was not at all helpful information. “Remember the mad man with the cloak? He hadn’t come here alone, right?”  
  
Geralt nodded and frowned, not understanding what the bard wanted to conclude to. He kept walking until he reached the door.  
  
Jaskier cleared his throat, now feeling the walls closing in. “Remember what he was repeating while he sat in the corner? About his companion?”  
  
Geralt pushed the door open and he would lie if he said he remembered. “No, I don’t.” He could not understand how this was relevant now when the last room of the tower was also empty and lightened by a small, unfitting window on the left. The rays were reflected on a pair of swords hung on the wall across it. He lowered his sword. “What the fuck is going on here?”  
  
“Geralt…” Jaskier almost choked, stumbled forwards and clung to the witcher. His vision blurred. “Geralt.”  
  
Geralt felt his hand being tugged and turned abruptly, catching Jaskier in his arms before his knees gave in. His heart skipped a beat. “Jaskier?” The bard breathed deeply but didn’t answer. Geralt cupped his face, almost trembling. “Jaskier, speak!”  
  
“Geralt.” Jaskier raised his head for a moment that seemed to be his last, just to look Geralt straight in the eye, almost pleading. “Run.”  
  
“Wha–“  
  
Geralt didn’t manage to utter any other word as a dagger stabbed his side and he let out a small gasp, then looked at Jaskier again and his breath was cut.  
  
His eyes were white. Like a ghost’s.  
  
And his hand was holding the dagger coming out of his side.  
  
Geralt widened his eyes. The mad man’s words.  
  
_I killed him, I killed him, I killed him, I killed him._  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
He pushed Jaskier away with all his might, sending him stumbling at the center of the room. Then stood on his feet and raised his sword. And paused.  
  
What was he doing? Was he going to fight _Jaskier_? The man that seconds ago was cradled in his arms? The man he still hadn’t admitted even to himself he loved?  
  
And then he realized. Possession. It was the only way.  
  
Before he managed to think anything else he noticed the second sword missing from the wall and his instincts told him to raise his hand, only to find himself clashing swords with Jaskier. But it was not Jaskier. He knew it was not Jaskier when he saw a feral look in his empty eyes as he parried the sword lowered directly at him and took a step back, preventing his instincts from taking control, because if they did, this was not going to end well. So he didn’t strike. He waited for the next blow which came with remarkable speed and ducked, managing a cut on Jaskier’s thigh. The man hissed but came at him again, his sword ripping the air and Geralt did a half-turn and clashed their swords once more. But Jaskier was fast and ruthless and that Geralt realized when he barely avoided the blade ripping his stomach in half, and yet, and yet, he couldn’t hurt him, but it was the only way as he found himself striking and pivoting and his sword whipping before it left another scratch on Jaskier’s shoulder. He had to throw him unconscious for the possession to fade. He had to hit him.  
  
And he tried, oh, he did. But he couldn’t help himself and it was not hard enough, and even if it was Jaskier would slip away and strike from behind, and he would have to dodge again and grip his sword. And then fifteen minutes had almost passed and although he had yet to get tired, Jaskier didn’t seem to stop either. On the contrary, he became faster. More determined. And it pained him, gods it did, to watch him like that, senseless, wild. No, it was not Jaskier.  
  
That he kept telling himself until he almost believed it, until his rage grew over his agony and his mind didn’t control the sword in his hand, but then again, neither did Jaskier’s. And still, if there was any hope left in him, any last hints of hesitation, he knew they wouldn’t last, because their swords clashed again, and between the two blades, he caught a glimpse of the rays of the sun brightening Jaskier’s lifeless eyes and his heart broke.  
  
He shook his head. “Jaskier… Jaskier, it’s me.”  
  
It should be enough. It could have been when he discerned a momentary frown creasing the bard’s forehead, the rays flowing like a halo around him. But then his sword lowered and Geralt hissed in pain as his hip burned and stepped back, and attacked. He wouldn’t run. This had to end.  
  
So they fought, and it was far from resembling a dance, because they were more like wild animals fighting for survival, more like the sun fighting with the moon for dominance, but then again, just for the sake of fighting, because one part cannot cancel the other when they complement each other, even if the moon dominates in the end, even if the inevitable can’t be avoided. Even if Geralt saw no more of Jaskier, but the mage, and his mania and grief grew so wild that the faint rays embracing the other man in front of him meant nothing anymore, because what he considered the only way hadn’t worked, it hadn’t worked, and he was there again, back in Blaviken, trying to choose over the lesser evil, only that now the two evils walked in just one body, and at least, at least he didn’t have to choose anymore. It was inevitable.  
  
So he parried once more, having already lost any hint of control was left in him and, as he met Jaskier’s eyes one last time, as he saw the mage smiling maliciously behind his bard’s face, as the wind suddenly blew from the window, he raised his sword, and he closed his eyes, and the sound of flesh being ripped echoed in the room. And Jaskier fell to his knees.  
  
The room went dark as fog covered the window, and the wind blew again. Jaskier gasped, and choked, and the sword slipped from his hand, fell on the floor. He blinked. Then raised his head. And Geralt dared to look and almost laughed, almost run to his side.  
  
Because his eyes shone blue again.  
  
“Geralt…”  
  
Almost. But then Geralt saw a dark figure crawling in the corner and turned at Jaskier again, and thought he had time. So he chose to head to the figure.  
  
Jaskier sobbed. “Geralt, no!”  
  
The witcher approached the mage without bothering to look at his face and raised his sword, and the mage laughed under his hood.  
  
“I was a fool to think you’d never hurt someone you love.”  
  
Geralt snarled and raised his sword to point the mage’s throat. “I’d choose better last words if I were you.”  
  
The mage then smiled and shook his head. “You will never learn to make the right choice though, will you, Witcher?”  
  
The control Geralt had previously lost returned to his hand and the man’s throat echoed no other words. He peered at him for a second, saw a familiar stain on his abdomen. A stain he had caused. And then he realized he hadn’t even cleaned his blade of Jaskier’s blood. He frowned.  
  
The right choice.  
  
Behind him, he heard a thump.  
  
“Fuck, Jaskier.”  
  
He almost jumped to the bard’s side and kneeled, his arms reaching to hold him, only to feel his trembling vibrating through his own body. Jaskier gasped for air and looked down at his hands, painted red as he covered his abdomen, marked by a deep cut. A sound resembling a wail escaped his lips.  
  
“Shit, that’s – gods…” He squinted as if waking up from lethargy and looked up at Geralt, then desperately around the room. He swallowed the blood coming up his throat. “W–What happened, Geralt? Why…”  
  
He was interrupted by a cry of pain as the witcher shifted his body in his arms and cupped his face, making him meet his gaze again. Geralt’s eyes were burning, his whole body was burning, with rage and sorrow and guilt and he shook his head, trying to tighten his embrace without hurting Jaskier. “Don’t worry, I’ll find a healer, you’ll be fine.” He ripped his shirt, made an attempt to bandage the bard’s abdomen, just for a bit, just to hold the bleeding. But there was blood, gods, so much blood.  
  
Jaskier had barely managed to regain any thoughts when his mind when blank again and he screamed in pain, his eyes closed shut and his hands hovering over the witcher’s. “Please, Geralt, it – ah, fuck…” He was suddenly lifted from the floor and half-opened his eyes, seeing Geralt’s face distorted in worry and, even now, oh how it broke his heart. Then a wave of pain made him cry again, his voice now hoarse as Geralt exited the room with quick steps and he clenched his fists. “It… Slow down, Geralt, it hurts, plea–” Blood coming up his mouth made him unable to utter anything else and he coughed so hard he might as well be dead.  
  
Geralt looked down at him and if he had been afraid before, nothing could compare to this. It wasn’t supposed to be that deep; he was supposed to control himself. He was supposed to be there. “I can’t fucking slow down, I can’t…” He snorted and averted his look and it pained him so much that every scream Jaskier let out made his feet tremble to keep on walking. Keep on running. He couldn’t be late. Even if it hurt him. It was… it was the lesser evil.  
  
Jaskier was wheezing uncontrollably and staring at the walls as they passed through the rooms as though to be distracted from the pain, his breath coming out raspy and wet. He saw the mirror again. Funny, one would’ve said he’d been there just five minutes ago. A lot must have happened in those five minutes. He shivered, furrowed his brows in thought. “Did you find the mage?” The helpless look Geralt gave him made him conclude that no, probably he hadn’t. But then, how did he end up like that?  
  
Geralt tried hard to keep himself composed every time he glanced at Jaskier, and every time he almost broke. The blood on Jaskier’s face, on his clothes, it was his fault. The tears flowing in waterfalls down his cheeks, they were his fault. He thought he had time. His fault.  
  
After a minute, Jaskier’s head lolled on his shoulder and he saw his eyes fluttering close. He cried faintly, shook the bard in his arms. “Jaskier, don’t!” Jaskier hummed and spluttered and he opened his eyes wide, trying to breathe. Geralt huffed in frustration as he met his look. “Don’t you dare close your eyes again!” Jaskier’s innocent, breathless chuckle almost made him whimper.  
  
Jaskier swallowed, becoming proud of himself for never failing to gaze at the witcher, his thoughts fighting to come to the surface of his memories. The pain that made him wheeze and whine with every step Geralt took was not helping, still, he didn’t understand, and every time he almost did, something wasn’t right. As if someone had entered his mind and made a mess, and now he could find no order, just a fog over any past image struggling to find its way in the dark.  
  
As they headed to the door and daylight lightened his face again, a thought flashed in his mind. The flowers in the garden, yes, the ones he’d seen previously and saw again now, spring crocus and dark red roses. Ah, they were beautiful. He leaned on Geralt’s shoulder, made to close his eyes but then glimpsed at Geralt and the concern on his face changed his mind for a bit. Geralt wouldn’t like it if he closed his eyes.  
  
The garden. The iron gate.  
  
He looked around again. Blood on his hands.  
  
_Of course, dear, I’m not an amateur._  
  
Where was his dagger?  
  
_Remember the mad man with the cloak?  
  
I killed him, I killed him, I killed him._  
  
He shook his head, cried in pain as if the memories were hitting him right on his wound. He tried to stable his breathing, realized he was being lifted on Roach’s saddle. Just outside the fence.  
  
_Promise me, Jaskier!_  
  
He heard Geralt calling his name. He’d probably closed his eyes again. He looked at him between his eyelids, felt blood flowing down his mouth, or it could be tears, he couldn’t tell anymore. A sob was choking his throat and anchored himself on the witcher. “Geralt?”  
  
_Run._  
  
Geralt reined Roach and turned at him, holding his breath. “Yes?”  
  
Jaskier didn’t answer immediately; he weakly raised his hand and touched Geralt’s face. His fingertips left red trails on the witcher’s cheek. He hissed as Roach galloped, but didn’t close his eyes. He had to look at Geralt. He had to ask. He swallowed. “Why did you not run?”  
  
Geralt froze. A single tear flowed down his face, yet his eyes swallowed down many more, and Jaskier smiled faintly, reaching to wipe it. He leaned into the touch, just for a second as if he wasn’t allowed for more, devoured any moment he got to gaze into Jaskier’s eyes, as if to compensate for every second they were drained of any colour. Then leaned gently and placed a kiss on the bard’s forehead, and held him tighter. “Stay strong, Jaskier. I’m running now.”  
  
Jaskier huffed softly, a laugh probably, and eventually closed his eyes with a sigh. Geralt bit his lip and reined Roach once more, holding him tight, grateful of the wind drying his tears. _Please, don’t let me be late. Please, don’t let this be another wrong choice._  
  
With the corner of his eye he saw the anemone field they’d passed earlier that day, now showered in sunbeams, their petals red like blood.  
  
He wondered if he should’ve let Jaskier cut a couple, after all.  
  
  


~~

  


The floor creaked as Geralt stood up from the wooden stool and headed to the window, rubbing his eyes between his thumb and index finger. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t managed to. And meditation was always interrupted by thoughts he preferred to keep away, still, they invaded every single attempt at clearing his mind. Darkness was good sometimes. It could be soothing.  
  
He rested his forearms on the windowsill and let his shoulders slump, heaving a deep sigh. It was well past morning, the street was full of people and he could hear the hubbub of the market echoing through every alley of the town. He’d found an inn just in the center, hadn’t paid much for the room, he’d finished his job and that was appreciated by the townsfolk. He was content, the food was good if he judged by the single bowl of soup he’d touched in those three days, and it had a nice view Jaskier would definitely like if he saw. Beside him, on the windowsill, there was a vase with purple hyacinths he had picked up at the roadside yesterday when he went to see Roach in the stables. They were beautiful; they would be appreciated too.  
  
And yet, all the voices of the street, all the birds on the trees failed to fill the silence dancing in the room. He lowered his head, bit his lip. Didn’t dare to look at the bed behind him. His heart ached every time he did, he felt like he was the last one that should be inside that room. Gods, he shouldn’t even be close to people if he thought about it. If that was just how he was. A trained monster that couldn’t control itself in any fight, that got lost in evil’s eyes, sank so deep into its sea that forgot to look back at the rays of light on the surface. Caught in the illusion that he had the power to choose what stays and what dies and thinking he’d made the right choice, thinking he was headed the right way. Jaskier’s sob was still echoing in his mind. Helpless.  
  
_Geralt, no. Don’t leave me, Geralt._  
  
He could have stayed. The mage would be dead anyway, the wound was deep and he was affected too. But he chose to run away. He chose to chase what was already lost, as though for revenge, as though he could erase his guilt by finishing the man off. As though he would escape his worst nightmare if he turned his back to it.  
  
He couldn’t run now. He couldn’t escape.  
  
The wind blew softly on his face, entered the room, made the hyacinths tremble in the vase. And he thought, that was the worst thing. Jaskier might forgive him, but he would never forgive himself.  
  
The ruffle of the sheets distracted him from the monotonous silence along with a low moan. He turned his head abruptly, his breath cut and fixed his eyes on the bed. Jaskier moved, and huffed and whimpered and Geralt watched as his eyebrows furrowed in agony and frustration and a cry escaped his lips. His fists clutched the sheets. Geralt ran to his side, sat on the stool beside the bed and reached for his hand, waiting. His heart fluttered. It’d been three days.  
  
Jaskier gasped and mumbled, shaking. If Geralt tried to hear what he was mumbling, he would understand. But he already knew. He knew as the bard’s hand hovered above his abdomen and the tears flowed in rivers down his face.  
  
“Geralt, please… Get me out of here, Geralt…”  
  
He cried and trembled and Geralt cursed and shook his head, and suddenly Jaskier jolted up with a loud gasp and opened his eyes wide and screamed again just as he felt strong hands pushing him back on the pillow. He closed his eyes shut, heard the whines and heavy breaths that probably came from him. The pain made his body go numb and even when it subdued after some moments, still, he didn’t dare to open his eyes.  
  
Dark. It was dark. Just like then. This is what being dead felt like? He expected it much less dreadful. Darkness and chaos and voices, and he was lost inside his own mind, fighting for breath and suddenly he was there again, on the floor, crawling out of the darkness only to find the light trembling in his vision.  
  
A voice. A voice he knew. Oh, a voice he loved. He held his breath. Oh, fuck. Had he closed his eyes again?  
  
“Geralt.”  
  
It was nothing, he barely heard the words coming out of his mouth raspy and weak, and yet the voice huffed and oh, how he loved that kind of huff. Almost a laugh, but not confident. He could make it a laugh.  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
Geralt. Looking at him and holding back a smile and was that a tear? Jaskier licked his lips, feeling them dry as if he had been walking in the desert. He tilted his head.  
  
“I guess you ran fast enough, didn’t you?”  
  
Geralt snorted, he could have laughed and squeezed Jaskier’s hand in his. Yes, a tear hanging from the edge of his eye. Jaskier felt weirdly proud of himself.  
  
“Do you want some water?” Geralt didn’t wait for the bard to answer, he already knew, he was already holding a cup of water in his hand when Jaskier nodded softly. He felt trembling fingers touching his, realized Jaskier tried to take hold of the cup. He met his eyes, ethereal blue shinning under the morning light, and shook his head, putting his hand on Jaskier’s, making him let go of the cup. His lips quirked in the smile he’d been holding back. “Don’t be so hasty.”  
  
Jaskier frowned for a moment before he let out a silent _oh_ , feeling Geralt’s hand on his nape, helping him raise his head. The witcher brought the cup to his lips and for a moment Jaskier hesitated, then as soon as he swallowed a sip he drained greedily the rest of the cup.  
  
“Take it slow, you’ll choke,” Geralt said, just to say something, just to swallow the whimper caught in his throat as he saw Jaskier there, looking at him, _alive_. The bard rested his head on the pillow again, but didn’t speak. His eyelids were getting heavy again, and Geralt raised a shaking, almost hesitant hand and cupped his face. “Hush, now. You need rest.”  
  
Jaskier smiled faintly, thought of asking ‘are you sure you want me to close my eyes again?’, but as soon as he parted his lips to speak, sleep had taken him in its veils again. The hand on his face, though, that he knew even asleep that stayed there for long after he drifted off. And for that, his dreams were not dark anymore.

  
  


~~

The last rays of the sun were creeping through the window, illuminating half of the room and painting the walls of the inn with a shade of wild red. The same rays were entangled in Jaskier’s lashes and his eyes creaked open as he let out a silent snort. He fixed his look on the ceiling for some moments, waiting for his blurred vision to clear and his mind to find its way from colourful dreamland back to his head. He turned his head slightly, directing his gaze to the window, squinting as the last of the sunlight warmed his face. He heaved a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes, feeling no different from when he woke up from a night’s sleep.  
  
His memory informed him that it was, in fact, quite different from waking up from a night’s sleep. He flinched softly at the thought, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by a jolt of pain he realized he was not experiencing at the moment, but its effects on his body would not fade so fast. He grunted, shook his head lightly as if to drive away the images flooding his mind. Flooding it like the blood flowing down his hands. Blood. So much blood. A sword was slipping from his hand. Why was he holding a sword? Geralt was walking away. Why was he walking away?  
  
“ _No, no, no._ ” He closed his eyes shut and covered them with his hands, trying to cease his mind from running deeper and deeper into what pained him for an entirely different reason than him choking on his blood. Then a realization. A feeling of dread. He raised his head from the pillow, looked around the room. “Geralt?”  
  
No answer. He let out a soft huff. Geralt wouldn’t leave, why would he? He wouldn’t walk away.  
  
Then he remembered, a hand on his face. A hand that was almost not supposed to be there. Warmth. No, he couldn’t leave.  
  
Yet Jaskier found himself swallowing in inexplicable doubt and staring at the door. _If he doesn’t come back in two minutes_ , he thought, _I’ll go find him_. A brave bet for someone who was still recovering from an injury. He brushed off the last fact. Barely had two minutes passed, though, and he steadied his hands on the mattress, ready to get up without second thought. The second thought came the moment he tried to raise his body from the bed and a breathless cry escaped his lips, echoing along with – was that his name? He fell back on the pillow with a gasp and heard the door banging closed.  
  
“What the fuck were you thinking?”  
  
Ah, if that’s not disapproval, his old friend. He turned his head, saw Geralt placing a tray on the bedside table and sitting on the bed by his side. Relief hit him like a wave. He didn’t answer, it was a rhetorical question, he knew, and if he had to be honest he wasn’t that much thinking as processing to act without calculating the possible outcomes. He peered at Geralt as the witcher unwrapped his bandages to check at the wound and smiled faintly. “Gods, Geralt, get some sleep.”  
  
Geralt flinched as though hit by thunder and looked at him almost surprised. Jaskier huffed and shook his head. Right, what a fool he was, how could he suggest that the mighty Geralt of Rivia was in need of some sleep. Still, as he gazed at his witcher, he could discern the wariness of his face and the slumping of his shoulders even under the dying light. Then he glimpsed down at his abdomen and, “ _Fuck._ ”  
  
A wide cut was spreading from his hip up to his chest, red with the colour of slowly healing flesh. He hissed instinctively, his look immediately flying back to Geralt. The witcher didn’t turn at him, didn’t dare to even glance. He just wrapped clean bandages around the wound and stood up again, still avoiding looking at the bard. Jaskier’s voice was heard behind him, low and hesitant.  
  
“Did you… find the mage eventually?” Jaskier saw Geralt’s fists clenching at his sides, still, the answer came back simple.  
  
“Yes. Yes, I did.”  
  
He chuckled humourlessly. “Not before he found you, I guess.” He hadn’t meant to be funny, still, he sounded too serious. But he had to know, didn’t he? That damned mage had graced him with a rather painful injury and although it would not be his first, he needed Geralt to fill the gaps of his memory. But as he searched for Geralt’s eyes across the room, he just met his turned back. And felt a lump coming up his throat. “What happened, Geralt?”  
  
Geralt, walking towards the fireplace, paused for a moment. Then formed Igni and lighted up the logs in the hearth. He didn’t turn his head. “I’ve brought you some food.”  
  
“Geralt.” Jaskier couldn’t stand, yet that didn’t prevent him from sitting on a higher position on the bed, biting back a groan, to have a better look at Geralt. But when he saw the witcher still hiding from his gaze, he shook his head in exasperation. “If you don’t look at me right now I swear I’ll start singing!” The confused look Geralt finally gave him made him smile. “Good. Now tell me what happened because this whole story feels weirdly out of place.”  
  
Geralt snorted but didn’t take his eyes off Jaskier. He would tell him anyway sooner or later, maybe saying it out loud would make it easier for him to accept. Maybe not. But Jaskier deserved the truth. He bit his lip. “I almost killed you.” He saw Jaskier frowning for a moment, then huffing a nervous laugh and shaking his head.  
  
“You don’t need to blame–”  
  
“Which part did you not get?” He was suddenly furious, the thought even of Jaskier erasing his guilt filling him with rage, dread. He barely kept his voice stable. “ _I_ almost fucking killed you! I did…” He broke off, considered averting his look for a moment but Jaskier’s blue gaze made him unable to escape. He gestured to the bard, the bed, somewhere. Everywhere. “I did this.”  
  
Silence. Jaskier furrowing his eyebrows, glancing at himself. The widening of eyes.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
_Oh_. That was it. The realization. The end of their company. Of their something more. Geralt felt his heart fluttering, yet relief filled his chest, although it weighted like a thousand stones. It was better this way. Safer.  
  
Geralt made to turn his back again, couldn’t bear to watch Jaskier’s broken smile piercing him whole. But the moment he had decided to heave the weight on his own, Jaskier’s expression softened and his smile became bitter. But not broken. “Oh, Geralt.”  
  
He couldn’t do it. Not now. “Don’t give me that look, Jaskier, I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just want you to leave as soon as you heal. It’s safer, this way.”  
  
Jaskier’s incredulous laugh made him shiver. “No shit, Geralt! Bold of you to ask me to leave without even bothering to tell me what actually happened!”  
  
“Don’t you understand?” Geralt felt his chest heating up with frustration. “That damned mage possessed you and attacked me and I almost killed you to stop him from ending us both. I couldn’t control myself!”  
  
“So I attacked you and _you’re_ the guilty one here?” Jaskier shook his head, his voice suddenly shaking. “Come to your senses, Geralt."  
  
“You were possessed, I was not. My nature is to kill. And that’s what I chose to do. I chose to hurt you, and I chose to run from you afterwards to kill the mage, while you were bleeding on the floor.” Geralt winced at the memory, winced at his own actions and grunted, his look flying to the flowers by the window. He swallowed. “Do not try to justify anything.”  
  
For a couple of seconds, the crackling of the fire was the only sound. Geralt heaved a shaky sigh, ordered his fingers to stop trembling. The sun had just set.  
  
“Would you feel better if I put the blame on you?” Jaskier’s voice fondled his ears like velvet, soft but somber. “On your nature? You want me to tell you it’s your fault?” He met the bard’s eyes, saw tears hanging on the edges. His fault. But Jaskier smiled sadly. “Is that what you see in yourself, Geralt?”  
  
He wanted to reply that yes, that’s what he saw now. He used to think that they were wrong, all those who spit at his feet. But how could they be, when he almost lost what he loved the most out of his own hand?  
  
“I will tell you what I see, then.” He turned at the bard and parted his lips to object, but Jaskier gave him a sharp look that drained him of words. And continued. “I see a man rejected by society so many times that he learns to consider only the mistakes in his life. A man who has known no praise and has assumed its natural, it’s what he deserves. A man who has tried so hard but resigned from trying to see the good in himself and just flows with people’s prejudices, because it’s easier than bearing the weight of what he could’ve become.” Jaskier’s voice trembled, tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t stop. “I see a man brave and kind and broken who tried to blame himself once again, thus trying to run from his mistakes, only for them to chase him because, eventually, none of this is his fault. I don’t see nature, Geralt. I see choices. And I see a man who chose to run, yes, but in the end, what he ran for was greater than what he left behind.”  
  
Geralt breathed. He was now shaking. He couldn’t stop it. He sat on the bed, helpless. He frowned, closed his eyes. Shook his head, as if he refused to admit, refused to forgive himself. “But I… I ran from you.”  
  
“Oh, Geralt. Oh, darling.” Jaskier didn’t care for the tears flowing down his face. He just smiled and held Geralt’s hand in his. “You ran _for_ me.”  
  
A deep sigh. Geralt wished the air filling his lungs could equally fill his mind, at least then he would get rid of all the thoughts running in the speed of light inside it. The hand covering his on the mattress almost made him whimper as he parted his lips to speak, to say something, but his lips quivered and he said nothing. He didn’t have anything to say, after all. Everything he had left, he really hoped for it to be mirrored in his eyes, because it was the only part of his body functioning anymore, his look fixed on Jaskier as he sat there, smiling oh so lovingly, a thousand suns pouring from his untroubled gaze.  
  
Jaskier raised his hand to Geralt’s face, trailed his skin with his fingertips, eased the deep line carved between the witcher’s eyebrows with his thumb. Then spread his arms. “Come here, love.”  
  
Geralt was a man of pride and dignity, he had no reason to accept such a hug. Except that the expecting look Jaskier gave him and the shivers that suddenly ran through his spine betrayed otherwise. So he took a deep, shaking breath and lowered his head, and carefully clung to Jaskier, and buried his face in his neck, and even if Jaskier felt hot liquid wetting his skin, even if he sensed the slight tremors of Geralt’s body as he embraced him and placed a hand on his nape, he said nothing. Neither of them did. They said nothing, neither of that nor of what Jaskier had uttered less than thirty seconds ago. Some day they would speak of this. Some day they would stop running from this too. Some day. Maybe tomorrow.  
  
Tomorrow, they would run for it instead.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on tumblr as [wanderlust-t](https://wanderlust-t.tumblr.com/)


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